


Gods & Monsters

by flossies



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, Genderbend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-08-13 18:44:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7982158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flossies/pseuds/flossies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark stories of the north have been transformed into harsh realities, and Little Lotte's mind wanders elsewhere these days...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One day I was thinking to myself, "What about 'The Phantom of the Opera'... with lesbians?

_Water. Water, water, and somehow more water. Desperate gasps for air pierce the ears of onlookers. A once melodious night is now stained with screams. A disturbing sonata of waves soon fades into silence._

* * *

The Viscount de Chagny stood and began to depart from Christine's dressing room with a beaming smile--in a hurry to order a carriage for the pair's outing. Christine struggled in vain against his wishes, rushing toward him, but was too late as he loudly shut the ornate door. Christine shivered in his absence, as if he had taken the sun with him.

"Things have changed, Raoul," she whispered to the empty room, glowing with candlelight. She let out a lingering sigh, struggling to remember the days that seemed so long ago now. Things really have changed. They were no longer children that marveled at the simplest wonders of the world. Raoul had earlier recalled the tale of her red scarf, but she chose not to dwell on it. Dark stories of the north transformed into harsh realities, and Little Lotte's mind wandered elsewhere these days. 

Christine sat down at the vanity and studied herself in the mirror. She hardly recognized the person staring back. As a child, her passion for music was unending. Her father's ceaseless playing of the violin made it impossible for her not to be enthralled with every new song. Melodies ran through her head constantly, and she frequently hummed them while doing her work. 

However, it seemed that her love of music had died with her father. She worked in the opera house now, because she promised her father that she would continue her life and fill it with music. Her heart was broken, and nothing could mend it. 

She broke her own gaze and slowly glanced toward the full-length wall mirror. She had been having several odd dreams lately involving that particular mirror, which, for the most part, had belonged to La Carlotta (until of course she left the new managers without a leading lady.) In these dreams, she recalls, she comes to the mirror in the early hours of the morning, and sings. She sings, in these dreams, like she never has. Her heart races and her mind is blank as she nears the mirror. A voice as sweet and heavenly as honey, as if from nowhere, commands her to set the music within herself free. She draws in air and lets it back out in indescribable ways. Her voice climbs higher and higher as a silent unknown demand urges her onward. Notes are held longer and longer, and everything makes sense. It is clear to her that all of her struggles have led to this. Eyes wide and mouth agape, she is baffled at her own ability and the feelings that are brought forth in her. She feels rejuvenated, like she once again can enjoy the presence of music.

It was merely a coincidence that La Carlotta happened to walk out when she did. Meg had volunteered Christine to sing the part, (an act for which she is still not forgiven,) and so it was done. Her singing career began, and she bequeathed the dressing room along with all of Carlotta's leading roles.

A familiar noise stirred Christine, and prevented her from pondering further upon the subject. It was the ambrosial voice that so often plagued her dreams. Only this time, she couldn't be certain that she was dreaming. After all, she never remembered returning home to retire for the evening, and she certainly did not remember having supper with Raoul. She supposed it was possible that she could have fallen asleep in the dressing room, and that was why she was hearing the voice. That was the most logical explanation. She was asleep and dreaming, so she had no reason to be afraid. Her rigid form softened and relaxed in her chair.

The voice called her name quietly, beckoned for her to come to the mirror as she had countless nights before. Christine stood slowly, obedient to the voice's wishes. Walking to the mirror, dressing gown flowing languidly around her, she stared at her body's reflection. The white gown was pulled tight around her waist and her hair billowed about her form, hanging in ever perfect brown ringlets. Her right arm rose from her side and she touched the cold glass gently with her fingertips. The voice hummed, seeming to approve.

" _Christine_ ," it breathed. The voice sounded as if it had come from beside her and had whispered directly into her left ear.

Christine inhaled sharply, but remained still. Her eyes grew wide as the mirror before her began to slide into the wall. She jerked her fingers away from the glass quickly as it vanished and she gasped. Behind the mirror was not a wall, as she had expected. A great dark passageway stood in its place.

"Christine," it said again, this time coming from the black space in front of her. "You are not dreaming."

She highly doubted that, but listened anyway.

"I have heard you sing, for it is to me you have been singing all these nights. Do not be afraid. I mean you no harm."

Christine raised an eyebrow at this; she was not afraid. As she was always confident and undaunted, she replied, "If you mean me no harm, then why is it that you come to me from my dressing room mirror? Why do you not simply knock on the door, like everyone else?"

"Because I am not like everyone else, Christine." The voice seemed somewhat saddened in saying this, but continued nonetheless. "I have been training you from behind this glass, and you have flourished. I was satisfied with that. But one night I thought to myself, her voice could attain even greater heights if taught in person. And this is what I wish to do. For even I cannot instruct perfectly through the sole power of the voice. Your voice has a magnificence like no other on this earth, but it lacks the training necessary to attain its true destiny."

She seemed to consider the voice's words before asking, "Where are you then? Why do you not show yourself?"

The voice sighed. "I do not have a mortal's face. Having a mortal gaze upon it would result in their destruction. So, to prevent this, I wear a mask. I have been informed that masked strangers can be quite frightening, and I did not wish to alarm you further."

"Mortals cannot see your face?" she wondered out loud. "Are you an angel?" The question was asked almost mockingly.

The voice let out a small chuckle. "Of sorts."

Christine smiled wryly at the darkness. "You are right, masked strangers can be quite alarming." Her expression changed from sarcastic to concerned. "However, I can assure you that I am not afraid. Reveal yourself. If I'm not dreaming, then I fear that I am hallucinating."

"I am afraid, Christine, that things are not that simple. You are not the only one that knows of my existence here. You see, I am who they refer to as, 'The Phantom of the Opera.'" The voice paused, as if to allow that information to sink in.

Christine wasn't surprised, and at hearing this, her caustic demeanor returned. "I am capable of putting two and two together, but thank you for the clarification."

The voice seemed taken aback and had to take a few moments to recover. "Oh?" was all that it could manage to say, and even that came out sounding more genuinely unsure than the voice would have liked.

It was at this point that Christine realized that she was definitely _not_ asleep. In all of her other "dreams," the voice had been very eloquent, and at times a bit bombastic. Now, however, it was so easily caught off guard that Christine found its responses more than slightly amusing.

"The Phantom of the Opera leaves threatening notes for everyone, signing them 'Opera Ghost.' I've been visited by a strange voice in my dreams--or, I suppose now, it's been real--ever since such nonsense began. The probability of not one, but _two_ opera ghosts seems highly unlikely, do you not think? Reveal yourself."

"Most would flee with this information. Everyone else I have ever encountered has fled my presence when given the opportunity. How do I know that you will not change your mind when I do expose myself?"

"Because I am not like everyone else."

A few moments of silence passed before a figure appeared out of the shadows of the long corridor. The stark white mask upon their face was a harsh contrast to the surrounding darkness. It was the only thing Christine could make out in the gloom. Though Christine was not afraid, her heart began to race.

"On that," it said, beginning to approach Christine. "We are both agreed."

As the owner of the voice entered the gentle glow of the candlelight, Christine involuntarily took a step back. Her sardonic attitude all but vanished. This person was taller than her, but only slightly. The light made things more clear, and she could see that they wore a dark suit and cloak with black leather gloves on their hands. She looked up to their face. It, as she had previously observed, was covered in a mask. However, it was not entirely concealed. The right half of the stranger's face was clearly visible, and it showed no imperfections whatsoever. Christine noted the creamy ivory color of their skin and was confused. She gazed upon this person's face, yet she was not "destroyed" as she had been told. The owner of the voice possessed short blonde hair that was slicked back and glowing green eyes that watched her carefully for a reaction.

Their face was not hideous, as Christine was expecting. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The mask donned by the stranger only covered the upper majority of their left side, leaving their mouth exposed, which, Christine guessed, was to make talking easier. Their mouth was small, yet their lips were shockingly full, and what she expected to be a harsh, angular jaw was instead soft and curvaceous. Their cheekbones were high and prominent, (or, at least they were on the right side of the face,) and the light of the candles gave their face more depth. The person standing before her was slender, and still it watched her as she studied, waiting. She stepped forward to look closer at the beautiful figure, but at that moment noticed a slight but _definite_ protrusion from the chest of the stranger's suit. Christine's eyes grew wide in confusion and she quickly began to look to their face. Her eyes stopped a few inches too soon, where she saw a conclusive _lack_ of a protrusion from the figure's neck.

" _Oh_ ," she managed, surprised. Her eyes abandoned their quest and dropped to the floor as she blushed. She had just assumed that the owner of the voice was male--their tone was deep enough and their clothes matched those of a man, but now that the thought was entertained, Christine realized that it was indeed a woman that stood before her.

The woman shifted slightly, knowing what caused Christine to react in this way, and half-smiled. "So you can see, there was perhaps another reason why I was hesitant to reveal myself to you."

Christine slowly looked up once more to the woman's face to meet her eyes. Vividly green irises met Christine's soft brown ones and locked. Christine's breathing still hadn't calmed down--and it was especially heavy after realizing that the voice that she had so often visited had belonged not to a man, but to a very handsome woman. The thought of her mystery voice belonging to a man had felt like a taboo, but if it belonged to a woman? She hadn't even considered it before, and in doing so now she felt as though she was ripping apart the fabrics of society as she knew it. Though, of course, Christine was never one to adhere to the rules of any game but her own. And, after all, this woman had only offered her singing lessons. She couldn't find any harm in that.

The woman spoke softly, her deep voice like a hum. "There is so much more that I have to teach, but I understand that this," she gestured wistfully to herself and the room. "Can be quite a bit to process. I will give you the choice. You can come with me to my home, where we will not disturb anyone as I instruct, or, you can remain here and I will never come to you again. I swear it. All that I request is that you do not speak of this encounter."

Christine thought of her father then, and what he might have said. He would have told her to take any chance she got to better her musical career, even if it meant going with a strange woman to her home, wherever that was. Probably. "I accept your request to take me as a student," she said confidently. "Where do you live? It's rather cold tonight, I should change and get my cloak, then we can-"

The woman took Christine's hand in hers and she lost all ability to form words. The woman grinned at her ignorance. "Christine," she began. "I live _here_. I live beneath the opera house. That is where we are going. That is where I shall teach you all that I know." She gripped Christine's hand tighter in assurance, and started to walk back through the threshold of the mirror into the dark hallway. Christine followed, still too dumbstruck that the woman had taken her hand to protest.

The passageway was pitch black, so Christine was inevitably thankful that the woman had taken her hand to lead her. She wondered how the woman could find her way through the unending maze of old props and stairways, but then realized that if she truly lived here, then surely she must have had time to get to know her way around. Christine had no idea of where she was being led, but knew for certain that they were plunging deep below the opera house. It was unbearably cold to her, as she was still clothed only in her dressing gown. The velvet of the woman's cloak occasionally brushed her arm and she relished in the brief warmth, but it was not enough.

To prevent herself from shivering and her teeth from chattering, she asked, "What is your name?" It was a simple enough question. She thought she should at least try to make small talk with this woman who had insisted upon giving her lessons.

"Erik," she answered, still leading them onward further and further into the proverbial labyrinth.

Christine stopped walking and her hand slipped out of the woman's grasp. "What? But you're..." She couldn't finish, she was too befuddled. The woman looked back at her, her eyes, after years in darkness, able to see adequately in the dark. She approached Christine hesitantly.

"A woman? Yes. But surely you must know how society regards women. We are seen as weak and taught to acquiesce regardless of our true feelings." Christine was still unresponsive, not entirely understanding, so she continued. "Men are not afraid of women. This is why I use the name Erik, and why I have changed my appearance to look like that of a man. If people were to realize that The Phantom of the Opera was truly a woman..." she paused, waiting to see if Christine understood. She clearly did not, so she continued dismally, "There would be nothing stopping them from taking me and everything I have worked so hard to achieve."

Christine's heart ached for the woman as she finally comprehended, but before she could respond, her teeth began clicking in her mouth and she cursed them internally for giving her away. The woman--Erik, started to quickly untie the cloak from around her neck. She carefully draped it over Christine's shoulders with gloved hands and looked down into unseeing eyes as she tied it around her. "I am sorry that I did not allow you time to change, I give you my sincerest of apologies. I must admit that I was eager to at last be in your company." Erik's hands fell to her side and she smiled shyly, though Christine could not see it. "There. Are you warm now?"

Christine's teeth stopped chattering a few moments after she was given the garment. "Yes, thank you." She didn't tell the woman how incredibly soft the velvet of the cloak was, or how it made her feel concealed from the unknown darkness around her. Erik's smile remained as she was able to see Christine stop shivering.

"Shall we continue? We have almost completed the walking portion of our journey." Erik waited patiently. Christine looked backwards, unable to see anything in the darkness, and nodded. Erik offered a hand which she took, and they continued deeper into the catacombs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho ho ho merry lesbians

Erik led Christine further into the winding blackness with a smile on her face, an involuntary smile, one for which she was extremely happy Christine could not see. She did not want to give up the illusion of "charming teacher" and have "cheeky imbecile" take its place.

  
A dim light began to grow from the darkness, and Christine drew in a breath. The light grew brighter and soon she could see that it was a row of candles that would soon be on either side of the pair illuminating their path. The walls appeared to be dilapidated beyond repair, and Christine feared they may collapse. She felt closed in, the makeshift hallway making her feel claustrophobic. She began to sweat in the cloak Erik had lent her. She stopped, closing her eyes to regain composure.

  
Erik halted as well, Christine's hand still in hers. Christine opened her eyes after a moment of deep breathing and Erik gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "Come. We are nearly there," she said warmly.

  
Christine let out a huge sigh of relief as the hallway was left behind them and they ventured onward. It became somewhat humid and she could smell something damp. Erik carefully let go of her hand and stepped forward. The slosh of water was deafening compared to the occasional creaks and groans of the opera house around them. Erik reached out to Christine once more; she was wary, but slowly stepped aboard a small boat of sorts and sat down. Erik, sitting beside her, leaned forward and lit a small lantern at the front of the boat. The boat was worn down from use and made from sturdy wood, but its obvious age made Christine uneasy.

  
She had just begun to relax a little, when Erik cleared her throat. Ashamed, she said, "I do hate to do this, but you're going to have to row with me."

  
Christine was surprised. She hadn't seen that it was indeed a rowboat. She wasn't offended by being asked to row. In fact, she would have rowed them both if the situation called for it or her new companion had asked it of her. She shrugged and picked up a paddle.

 

"It's just that I was injured recently and I... Well, it's infected. It's immobilized my left forearm. I'm sorry."

  
Erik was so flustered and unhappy with herself that she almost didn't hear Christine when she said, "It's all right. I really don't mind at all. My father and I used to row out onto the lake near my home all the time. I know my way around a paddle. Really, it's okay." She smiled.

  
Erik smiled appreciatively. "Let us begin, then."

 

* * *

 

Upon reaching their destination, Erik leaped from the boat onto solid ground only to turn around and offer her hand to Christine. Christine, however, was not looking at Erik. Her eyes gazed in awe at the enormous space before her.

  
The light was shocking, compared to the complete darkness they had just been submerged in. Candles everywhere, hundreds of them, a thousand even, plagued the room and sat upon every stage prop she could imagine. They flooded the room with seemingly inexhaustible light, creeping into the darkest crevices. A simple piano stood in a corner of the space, and even there, candles were dripping their wax onto its surface.

  
Without thinking, and still entranced, Christine asked, "Do you always leave this many candles burning when you leave?" Her eyes were still too enamored with the sight before her to focus on Erik, who gave a shy grin.

  
"No," she said, a smile in her voice. "Not always."

  
Christine looked back to the woman, who was still holding out her hand. Christine took it carefully, and was helped out of the boat as she continued to wonder at the room about her.

  
The water by which they had traveled created a small embankment, and was, as far as Christine could tell, the only entrance. _How clever!_ she thought. A small peninsula of land jutted out into the embankment, where the pair was standing. A writing desk stood towards the center of the room, and a bed claimed an area of space in the right-hand corner. Christine was touched for a moment, to see how truly human this supposed "opera ghost" truly was. An enormous mirror expanded the entire length of the back wall, where she saw her reflection and that of Erik, this strange new woman who had offered her singing lessons, of all things. A thousand glowing lights about about them danced in the mirror easily ten times as large as mirror they had first communicated through.

  
Erik began to speak, looking concerned and misunderstanding Christine's ogling. "I'm sorry if you find this," she gestured with her right arm to the entirety of the room. "To be unsatisfactory. I built most of the things you see here. From the boat we traveled in to the very floors we stand upon. My sincerest apologies. If you'd like for me to take you back, that's all quite fine, I just need a moment to--"

  
"What?" Christine interrupted. "What are you talking about? This room is positively incandescent. It's beautiful. I love it." She backtracked. "And you built this?" She walked towards the writing desk where she rested her hand and smoothed it along the edge. "The craftsmanship is truly impeccable. I would have never guessed. If you're trying to impress me, it's working."

  
Erik was flabbergasted. She had no idea what to say. Yes, she was trying to impress Christine, but only a little, she admitted to herself. She'd never been complimented before. Her mind began to shut down. "Singing lessons," she said suddenly.

  
Christine looked at her for more words. Erik struggled, but managed, "I brought you here for singing lessons."

  
Christine smiled again. "Oh, yes, right! I'm excited to begin. I'll do whatever you say. I am ready to learn!"

  
The other woman's mind somehow became even more blank. "Yes. Right. Come here over to me, then, we will begin."

  
Christine strode over to where Erik stood, the latter's cape still billowing behind her. Erik's dark blonde hair was coming down in her face in strands, which she pushed back frivolously. She cleared her throat and started, "To begin, you must learn to properly control your diaphragm. Have you ever taken singing lessons, of any kind? That's one of the first things they teach." Christine said she hadn't, and Erik did not seem surprised. She did not judge Christine, her voice was beautiful and lovely, but it needed proper training to become ethereal and divine. Erik simply nodded and continued. "To control the diaphragm is to breathe properly. Since you don't know how to breathe with your diaphragm, that will be our first lesson." Christine looked confused, she just thought that singing was singing. She didn't know that there was a "correct" way to breathe. She allowed the other woman to continue nonetheless. "Your first exercise is to breathe in very deeply, and then hold that breath, while pushing your stomach out as far as possible."

  
Christine raised an eyebrow at the blonde haired stranger, who was so suddenly stoic. When she received an expectant look in return, she rolled her eyes and began to breathe in. When she pushed her stomach out, she could feel her muscles stretching. It was a strange and new feeling, but not an unpleasant one.

  
"Now," Erik said. "Exhale, moving your stomach back to it's original position. Be sure not to move your shoulders or any part of your body that is not your stomach."

  
Christine exhaled too quickly and made a mess of moving nearly every part of her body in the process. Erik gave her a look, as to say, _Really?_ but Christine just gave a teasing glare and tried the whole process over again.

  
On her third try, she was almost completely still while exhaling. Erik looked very pleased with her. "Very good, stretching your diaphragm when it's been so misused will be a very nice start for you, Christine. You practice breathing for a while, I will make some tea. Do you like tea?"

  
Christine was taken aback. "Tea? Where would you make tea?"

  
Erik walked past the writing desk and pointed beyond the bed in the corner. "Hidden rooms. I have a small kitchen, of course. For practicalities. Contrary to popular belief, I do not feast on children or souls of the living."

  
"Oh, no, I didn't mean-- It's just that I--I didn't see that you had a kitchen, was all."

  
Erik smiled and began to make her way towards the hidden entrance in the side wall. "Keep breathing for me, Christine. It will soon pay off fantastically."

 

* * *

  
Thirty minutes later, Erik emerged with a cup of tea for Christine, which she graciously accepted after all of her breathing exercises. "You were gone for a very long time, I was beginning to think you weren't coming back," Christine said. "What were you doing?"

  
"Strictly Opera Ghost business, I'm afraid," Erik said sadly. "Have you been breathing like I've asked the whole time?"

  
"Yes, and the muscles in my stomach ache terribly," she said, sipping at the tea.

  
"That will happen at first, and you will be sore in the morning as well. But it will be well worth it, I can promise you that."

  
"Erik," Christine pronounced her name carefully, suddenly struggling for words. "I am so tired. I must rest."

  
Erik could see then that she really was exhausted. Her eyes had circles under them, and she was swaying slightly. Her eyelids sagged and her speech had begun to slur. "I must return you to the surface at once."

  
Christine agreed, until she thought of the long journey back. "I can't make it. Too tired."

  
Erik was at a loss. Her eyes followed Christine's gaze towards her own bed, sitting in the corner. No, certainly not. Never. Christine would return to the surface that night. She would carry her if she had to. It was at that point that Christine's swaying became too much and she lurched forward, grabbing onto Erik's left arm, which screamed in pain. Erik used her right arm to catch Christine and pull her off of her other arm. _So much for carrying her._

  
Erik sighed and half-dragged Christine to her bed, where she flopped down gracelessly, already mostly asleep. Since she was on top of the covers, Erik rearranged her cape around Christine's neck to form a blanket of sorts. It was big and soft enough. It would suffice.

  
Christine's sleeping form was sweet and innocent, her hair cast about her every which-way. The cape about her rose and fell with every quiet breath she took, and Erik was entranced. Christine was so beautiful, her heart was so pure, her voice was so wonderful. In another life, Erik would have admitted to loving Christine.

  
But this was the life she lived. She quickly abandoned the thought, turned away from Christine's sleeping form, and sauntered off towards her writing desk.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm only saying their names 5 billion times for this to make sense. Forgive me, I don't know how to write.

              After several minutes of quiet contemplation and staring into bleak nothingness, Erik quickly stood. There was a conversation happening somewhere on the surface of the opera house. She took a final glance at Christine’s slumbering body and departed, heading towards the surface to investigate.

* * *

 

              “But Christine already signed! _She_ must know that by now.”

              “Andre, reasoning with her is impossible. _You_ must know that by now.”

              “But—“

              “But nothing. La Carlotta is beyond reason.”

              The hour was nearing four in the morning, and Firmin and Andre, the two owners of the Opera Populaire, were fervently discussing what must be done with La Carlotta, who had decided that night that she was apparently _not_ above singing for ghosts. (After all, a paycheck is a paycheck.)

              “Firmin, we’ve been up for hours, we need to rest.”  
              “Not until we figure something out. We’re really in a tough spot. Christine Daae has the better voice, but Carlotta has the fame.”

              “We’ve only been discussing those exact facts for the past three hours, but thank you for reiterating the point.”

              “Oh, shut up.”

* * *

 

              Erik, who had been listening from the room next door, was furious. _How dare they!_ Just when she had gotten what she wanted, for Christine’s career to begin to blossom, it was being ripped from her hands so soon. A plan began to take place in her mind—one that would terrify them into doing her bidding, one to get Christine the stardom she deserved. Christine, who was humble with her natural talent, who had accepted her as a teacher. Christine, an angel, who … was asleep in her bed.

              Erik shook herself from the thought. She made some foreboding comments to Firmin and Andre through the walls, which echoed ever so slightly throughout the room. That effectively ended their contemplation and sent them home for the night. _Good,_ she thought.

              She sauntered back down to her lair feeling bitter about the bit of conversation she had just heard. Her expression was scrunched in frustration, and her stark white mask sat uncomfortably on her face (as it usually did.) Her expression was softened, however, when Christine came into view. Still, she slept. Erik had been gone perhaps twenty minutes or less. Her heart was so taken with Christine that her rage all but vanished at the sight of her. Her stiff shoulders relaxed and she felt at ease. She felt almost tired.

              Nevertheless, she watched her reflection as she made her way to the writing desk where she occupied most of her time. She sat to begin composing more for the score she had been creating. It was nothing too special. _What would really ensnare the audience?_ she wondered to herself. Of course, no one ever watched or performed her works, but still she took into consideration what might capture the audience’s attention. Behind her, Christine mumbled something—she was still asleep. _Probably dreaming,_ Erik thought. She smiled warmly at the notion. How headstrong Christine was, how bold, yet sweet and kind. Christine. Her heart felt light. _Christine …_

              Erik looked back to her work and grimaced. _No,_ she reasoned. _I will not._ But she did, and began writing, once again losing herself in her work.

* * *

 

              Christine’s eyes fluttered open, and her brow immediately furrowed. She had no idea where she was. She sat up and looked around the room, catching her reflection in the mirror. She was still in her dressing gown from last night. _Last night._ Cast about her was an enormous black velvet cape of sorts. She shifted her gaze to the left, and there, with perfect posture, sat the owner of the cape and the voice from her dreams. The woman. Erik.

              She stretched slightly, not wanting to make too much noise. Erik appeared to be very enraptured in whatever she was working on. Christine looked now to the hundreds of twinkling lights that came from the candles scattered throughout the room. _It really is beautiful,_ she thought and smiled. She wanted to know more about this strange place, and know more about her new teacher. She stepped onto the cold ground, leaving the warm, strangely cozy bed behind. Her curly hair, once in ringlets, was now cast wildly about her frame from sleep. She disregarded this, not necessarily caring about her appearance, (she was in an underground lair, for heaven’s sake,) and quietly proceeded toward Erik, whose right hand scribbled madly on the page.

              Erik still had not noticed her change in position, and Christine slowly reached down and touched the woman’s shoulder to get her attention. She figured it would be kinder than speaking and interrupting the palpable silence.

              Erik flung herself out of her chair which was sent flying across the room. Christine’s hand flew back to her side in surprise. “ _Never,”_ Erik spat. “Touch me without my prior consent and knowledge.” Halfway across the room, her arms were wrapped tight around her torso, and she began to shake. Her hair was mussed and her green eyes were practically bugging out of her skull. Her injured left arm was screaming in agony from being in such a position.

              Christine was shocked. She didn’t know what to say, so she began to cry. “I’m- I’m sorry, I didn’t think…” was all she could manage before she became unintelligible. Erik blinked a few times, and her vision became fuzzy. She could not, for the life of her, figure out why, until a teardrop fell unceremoniously to the floor.

              She panicked. She hadn’t cried since… Well, she couldn’t remember when the last time really was. Her face softened at this realization, and her body gradually relaxed. “Christine,” she spoke softly. Christine rubbed at her eyes to attempt to clear the tears from them. “I am so sorry for frightening you. It’s just that _you_ frightened _me_. Please don’t cry, I am sorry.”

              “But why were you so angry?”

              “I…” Erik’s eyes averted Christine’s and began to water again. “That is a tale for another time.” She turned away and quickly wiped the growing tears from her eyes.

              Christine didn’t want to push her boundaries any further, considering she had already broken them. “I see.” She had stopped crying, but her face was still bright red, even in the dim light. “Allow me to apologize then, for frightening you.” Her apology was sincere, thus confirming that she would not do such a thing again.

              Erik slowly approached Christine, form still rigid. “I am afraid that it’s time for you to return to the surface,” she mumbled.

              Christine could sense her discomfort. “All right,” she conceded. “But first…” She reached her hand out to Erik—a silent question. Erik was wary but nodded nonetheless. Christine gently placed her delicate hand on the woman’s shoulder in a display of comfort. Erik attempted to refrain from melting at the touch, this time. “I was afraid that I’d irreparably upset you and you’d no longer take me as a student.”

              “We really do have to go,” her deep voice was a bit higher than usual, and she turned and began to walk away, leaving Christine’s hand to drop back to her side. “However,” she said, stopping. “I too was fearing that I had upset you so much that you would no longer wish to be my pupil.”

              “No,” Christine smiled warmly, her hand on fire. “Like I said before, I’m not like everyone else.”

* * *

 

              Upon their arrival to the dressing room where they had met, Christine begged the question, “When will I see you again?”

              Smiling sadly, Erik replied, “Tonight, if you so wish. Though after this night’s affairs I am sure that is not the case.”

              Christine shook her head. “Not true. Tonight sounds divine. I cannot wait to learn more! As for now, though, I must rest. Good night! Er… Good morning!”

              The woman grinned at her. “Good morning, Christine.”

* * *

 

              As Erik departed, the sun was indeed beginning to shine on the Opera Populaire. A new day brought forth into existence, and for the first time since her father had died, Christine could only wonder at what it would have in store for her.

 


End file.
